


Battlefield Healing

by LemonCakeDesign



Series: Writer's Month 2020 Fics [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Battle, Gen, Medical Procedures, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:48:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25706173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemonCakeDesign/pseuds/LemonCakeDesign
Summary: Healing magic changes when you enter the battlefield.
Series: Writer's Month 2020 Fics [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1862386
Comments: 4
Kudos: 2
Collections: Writer's Month 2020





	Battlefield Healing

Healing magic changes when you enter the battlefield.

In the clinic, in the classroom, things are clean. Orderly. Even emergency cases, though stressful, are manageable in a lot of ways. You always have your stock of herbs and pre-made potions, you know where you keep the sutures and the bandages, you have helping hands and plenty of magic and a thousand comforts that you don’t know you’ll miss until you don’t have them.

Battle healing, on the other hand, is  _ messy _ .

“Hold him down!” Pike shouts. He can’t spare the magic for a sleep spell; not when the private two seconds from bleeding out on his table needs him to hold that stasis spell on the fifteen other wounds he has while he pulls the massive piece of shrapnel from his lung, and they ran out of the anesthetic potions a fortnight ago. But he needs the man to be  _ still _ , so he can avoid shredding his lungs any further than he has to.

The men who brought him in, likely his platoon mates, hesitate, and Pike doesn’t sigh, doesn’t have the  _ time _ . “Hold. him.  _ down, _ ” he repeats. “And make sure he doesn’t move, as much as possible, or you’ve as good as killed him yourselves.” It’s cruel, but there’s no time for kindness; not when the words get them to snap to attention.

The bigger of the two grips the private’s shoulders and holds them until his knuckles go white, and the smaller locks his arms around his legs. Pike nods to them, and grips the large piece of metal with both hands, and begins to pull.

It’s slow going, and every second of it is agonizing for them all. If Pike pulls too fast, he risks causing damage he can’t fix, but every extra second is another second of all of them listening to the private scream as much as he can with one lung. Every one of Pike’s muscles burns; the shrapnel piece is heavy, but there’s no room from dropping it, not if he wants this boy to live.

Finally, with a horrifying squelch, it releases, and Pike dives into the wound, Elder on his lips. Healing an organ like this is dangerous, delicate work, should never be done without anesthetic and while holding several other spells—but much like every other horror he’s had to inflict on the boy, it’s their only chance of him making it.

Pike thanks the gods for his memory, crystal clear, because he has to hold every structure of the lung perfectly in his mind while he connects with the boy’s innate healing capabilities.

This is the only time the battlefield bleeds away; when he tips over into the not-reality of magic talking to magic. There’s no sight to it, no sound; no senses at all, in fact. Pike is  _ magic _ , at its most base and primal, and at its most complicated and crafted.

The magic-Pike finally feels the magic-private, and they connect. He projects the image of the lung to it, and he gets the distinct impression of understanding, as if the magic is saying,  _ yes, I remember. I built this once before. I can build it again _ .

Pike gives what energy he can spare to it, whatever’s not spent holding the stasis spells. Then he retreats, blinking back into reality just in time to catch the fading of a dark blue glow, like starlight against a winter sky. He pulls his hand from the wound, and begins to stitch the wound closed.

An hour later, he has the rest of the wounds cleaned and stitched, and the private is breathing steadily, the rise and fall of two complete lungs. Pike takes just a second to bask in the pride of a job well done. Then, he turns, facing row after row of cots with dying soldiers, and dives back into his work.

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on a novel I'm currently working on! The main character is Pike (yes, like my FFXIV character, he makes up the basis of it), a prodigy in healing magic. This was the first place I went when I saw the day three prompt for Writer's Month 2020; I love the idea of how magic would change battlefield medicine. I hope you enjoyed it!


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